


conflict of interest

by orphan_account



Series: qui pro domina justitia sequitur [3]
Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c., Real Person Fiction
Genre: Difficult Decisions, Dramatization of Real Events, Emotional Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Unrequited Love, when will the FBI come knock down my door and take away my computer come on please please please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 16:20:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11062635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The election is over. Donald J. Trump has won. Hillary Rodham Clinton has lost.Jim Comey calls Barack Obama.





	conflict of interest

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended readings are [here](https://www.nytimes.com/2017/04/22/us/politics/james-comey-election.html) and [here](https://www.nytimes.com/2017/05/18/us/politics/james-comey-memo-fbi-trump.html).
> 
> Timeline of events available in the end notes.

The meeting is organized in secret. They don’t need the media’s prying eyes to overcomplicate things or the President to start screaming bloody murder and his followers to play along and pursue some grandiose conspiracy theory. There’s no conspiracy here.

They just want to meet before shit hits the fan. And shit is just about to hit the fan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s always a little surreal to be in the Oval Office, even though it’s been so many years since the whole Stellar Wind debacle. And yet, sometimes, when he’s sitting on the couch and speaking with the President about the national security matter of the day, part of him expects to turn his head and see Bob there with him.

Except Bob’s been out of the job for a while now and Jim is the FBI Director and someone else is the Attorney General and Deputy Attorney General and there’s no quiet rebellion brewing under the surface. And even if there were, Jim has a pretty good feeling President Obama would not be as oblivious as Bush was.

He catches himself staring at Obama at one point, while he’s asking a question of Brennan about something he’d said earlier, and he looks away the moment their eyes meet. He thinks his face flushes a little bit and he awkwardly clears his throat. Now is certainly _not_ the time for a reaction like that.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim thinks he sees the corner of Obama’s mouth quirk. He _really_ hopes the cameras are looking somewhere else right now.

The meeting ends and he’s somehow one of the last officials in the room, files tucked under his arm as he moves to leave. Obama comes forward and they shake hands, briefly, warm and soft and secure.

“You zoned out a little back there, didn’t you?” Obama asks. His face is straight but his eyes are light and bright.

Jim shakes his head. “I was just thinking,” he says, “about how every time I come in here, it’s always for a bad reason.”

“That’s an excellent point,” Obama hums. “Maybe you could change that by coming over someday to play basketball.”

He can’t help it, he actually chuckles a little. “You know I can’t do that, sir.”

“I know, I know,” Obama says. He pats Jim’s arm with a smile. “Have a good day, Director. I hope I don’t see you anytime soon.”

“I hope not, Mr. President,” Jim replies, and he’s fighting back a smile as he leaves the Oval and goes back to the rest of the day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first thing he notices when he sees Bob is that he looks exactly the same as he did all those years ago, back before he stepped down as Director and even before Stellar Wind. His hair is still a dusty grey and his presence is still grand and demanding, but there are new lines under his eyes and a heavy weight on his shoulders as he steps back and lets Jim duck into his office.

There’s a little awkward moment when it’s just the two of them in the room, and then Bob says, “You look older.”

“You don’t,” Jim replies.

Bob laughs and claps Jim on the back, and Jim releases the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. And, all of a sudden, it feels like the entire past few months have caught up with him and he doesn’t think he can breathe.

His knees go weak and he manages to find the chair before collapsing into it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They have two closed-door meetings that day, made around their varying schedules. It feels like this is their entire job now, just investigating candidates and Russia and emails, day in and day out. Toscas was right, in a way – though it’s more ‘Federal Bureau of Emails’ at this moment. At every moment. Jim lets his breath hiss out quietly through his nose and he shakes his head.

Of course these emails would come back. Of course they could have such far-reaching consequences. Of fucking course.

“We can’t risk it,” he finally decides, by the second meeting. Everyone’s eyes are on him as he stops tapping his fingers on the desk and turns his chair to face them all. “If word of this got out, regardless of what the outcome is, it could bring the agency’s objectivity and reputation into question.”

“You really think we can’t survive that?” Steinbach asks. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Jim knows he’s been going back and forth on this whole thing all day – they all have – but the time to make a decision has come.

“I don’t,” Jim replies. “Especially if Mrs. Clinton is to win.”

Strzok clears his throat, carefully and considerably. “Should you consider,” he says, “what you’re about to do may help elect Donald Trump president?”

Jim’s first instinct is to laugh, but then he remembers – all of the terrible, terrible things they’ve been discovering since the start of the election and all the things that have happened since and, honestly, he truly might be tempting fate by going through with this. His second instinct is to possibly throw up.

“We can’t let politics affect our decision,” Jim says. He pauses a moment and takes a breath. “If we ever start considering who might be affected, and in what way, by what we do, we’re done.”

They write out the letter, all of them in that room, as Lynch is informed of their decision. Her concerns are clear and obvious but she doesn’t call and so they keep working. People slowly file in and out, until it’s just a handful of people left putting on the finishing touches of a document that could potentially change the course of an entire election.

He still feels exceedingly uneasy about all of it, even though it was his own decision and he knows it’s the best one to make at this junction. And yet, he’s stays in that conference room long after everyone else has gone. His hand covers his face and he sighs, slowly.

There’s a knock on the door and he hears McCabe’s voice. “Sir? Are you all right?”

For a second, he thinks about saying ‘no’, about spilling out all the truths and the secrets and everything else he’s been swallowing down and writhing in for the past year, about just letting it all out and bringing an end to this nightmare.

Jim lifts his head and looks at him. “I’m fine,” he says. He stands up and starts to head out the door, all but brushing past McCabe, before turning around and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for asking.”

McCabe nods. “Of course,” he says. His voice is soft and kind and, for a second, Jim feels better.

And then the next day comes and Chaffetz leaks and Jim’s not better anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“How are you feeling?” Bob asks him. He’s got files across his desk and a pen in his hands and Jim knows they’re supposed to be talking about what he wrote down in the memos and what led him here, but for whatever reason, they’re not getting into it yet.

Jim shrugs. “I’m…” he tries to say he’s fine, that he’s holding up, that he’s actually feeling pretty confident that his memos might hold the key to – well, maybe not impeachment but who knows? – something, certainly. But Bob’s looking right at him and Jim’s throat closes up and he can’t bring himself to say any actual words.

Bob’s look turns from impassive to pitiful. “Jim,” he says, slowly, “you can tell me.”

Jim looks down in his lap and doesn’t say anything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You did _what_?” Ben raises a brow. He watches Jim take a sip of his coffee before asking again, “You – you tried hiding in the Blue Room because you were wearing a blue suit?”

Jim pauses. “You know, it sounds really stupid when you say it aloud,” he muses with a slight chuckle. It’s not a chuckle of mirth, but rather one of absurdity because he still can’t believe the world he’s in.

In which Donald Trump is President while the FBI is investigating his campaign. As they say, only in America.

“If you were really concerned, you could’ve gotten McCabe to go,” Ben offers. “I mean, the FBI would still have been represented.”

Jim takes a moment to imagine McCabe there in his stead, but he finds his mind unwilling. He shakes his head. “No, I wouldn’t want to subject him to that.”

“To meeting Donald Trump?” Ben asks.

“Hey, you said it, not me,” Jim smirks over the brim of his cup. He takes another sip and carefully sets it down. They talk a little more about what Trump has done in Jim’s presence – he avoids slipping in too much detail, since there is an investigation, after all – but the simple fact of saying everything aloud and having someone on his side is such a fucking relief.

“You think there’s going to be any more events like Priebus trying to get you and McCabe to speak out against the leaks?” Ben asks at one point.

Jim shakes his head. “No, I think they’ve learned their lesson at this point,” he says. “They’ve figured out the protocols and I’m sure they’re not going to try breaching them again.”

“You’ve got them trained, huh?” Ben chuckles.

“You could say that,” Jim smiles. There’s a cautious optimism in the air and, for the first time in a while, he’s feeling pretty confident he can make it the next four years – or less, God-willing. And he hopes God is willing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“And you’re sure all the memos are accurate?” Bob asks, eyes skimming over the notes he’s taken. There’s a certain resignation to his tone, still, after Jim refused to answer how he was feeling, but Jim knows the matter is not dropped.

In fact, it’ll probably come up in a few moments.

He nods. “I’m absolutely certain,” he says. “They were made less than twenty-four hours after the meetings, in order to ensure their accuracy.”

“I see,” Bob says. He sets the pen down and leans back, giving Jim a considering look. His lips part and he lets out a sigh. “And you’re sure no one other than Mr. Wittes has went on the record with your version of the contents of these meetings?”

“I’m sure.”

“What about the person who leaked the existence of the memos?” Bob looks up, brown eyes sharp and narrow and piercing into Jim’s soul. “Do you know who might’ve done that?”

“I have no idea,” Jim says. He hesitates a second, then adds, “I didn’t ask someone to leak them.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Bob assures him.

Jim swallows a little. “Do _you_ know who might have?”

Bob shrugs. “Honestly, it could be anyone. It’s like McCabe said at his hearing,” he says, “you were popular at the FBI, and then someone – for reasons that, at face value, seem criminal – decided to remove you from your post. Some of them might see that as an act of war against the agency and acted accordingly.”

“I see,” Jim says, slowly, thinks of McCabe, of Steinbach, of Strzok. “Well, I hope whoever the new director is, that they know better than to compromise the Bureau’s integrity for their own goals.”

“I hope so too,” Bob says, quietly.

For a long moment, they don’t say anything at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“And that’s what Margolis’ advice was?” Jim asks.

“Verbatim,” McCabe assures him, and he holds up his notepad as evidence.

Jim nods slowly. He gets up from his desk and paces a little, trying to plan his next steps. “You told him that there was a high chance the email was faked, correct?”

“I did,” McCabe nods.

“Okay,” Jim sighs. He runs a hand through his hair and sits back down. “Okay,” he says again. “I think I know what to do.”

“You’ll announce the end of the investigation?” McCabe asks.

“I’ll consult Steinbach and Strzok on it,” Jim says, then sighs, “but I do think that in the end, I will be the one to announce the end.”

McCabe nods again. He clears his throat and opens his mouth, as if to say something, then closes it and stands up.

Jim stands up with him. “Thank you,” he says, “for going out to meet with Margolis.”

“It was no problem, sir,” McCabe says, and he sounds genuine about it. It’s when he leaves that Jim wonders what he was going to say, whether it was about his decision to go ahead and close the investigation without Lynch, or something else entirely.

The meeting on the tarmac takes all of them by surprise and they hurry in their efforts to write out the letter, to finally put an end to the nightmare that’s consumed their every waking moment. He calls Lynch right before it begins and tells her he’s calling a conference.

“Okay,” Lynch replies. “Thank you for informing me.” She doesn’t ask anything and he doesn’t tell her anything and they hang up without any pleasantries.

He’s heading down to the briefing room when it occurs to him – what would the President be thinking, right now, about all of this? They haven’t spoken face-to-face since the Pulse shootings and yes, they’re due for an in-person briefing sometime soon, but the air of the emails has been hanging between them and left them cold.

 _It’ll be over soon_ , Jim thinks, and with his binder at his side, he steps into the room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You know,” Bob says, finally breaking the silence, “all of this with Trump is just making me miss Bush Jr.”

Jim actually lets out a laugh at that. “Are you serious?” he asks.

“When am I not?” Bob asks, smile playing on his lips. “At least Bush as a person was more or less decent – it was Cheney I had a problem with.”

“You could argue that Bannon is the new Cheney,” Jim counters.

“I don’t think Trump would let himself be used like Bush was,” Bob says. He leans back in his chair a little. “Obama was good, though. Likable, intelligent, willing to ask questions if he doesn’t understand and admitting he doesn’t…” He shakes his head. “He was also a nice guy.”

Jim’s throat closes up and he nods, just barely. “Yeah,” he says, voice soft and quiet. “Yeah, he’s a nice guy.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He hates what he’s doing to McCabe – to _Andy_. His employee, his agent, his deputy, and maybe even his friend. He knows how McCabe feels about him and he knows that he doesn’t feel the same way in return and yet he let it all happen.

Because he’s just so damn tired day in and day out, dealing with the absolute _child_ in the White House and the fucking Russians whenever he gets back to work and he can’t take this home, he can’t explain it all to Patrice and the kids. And Andy is right there, wanting and willing, and Jim.

Jim wants. He doesn’t want Andy, not specifically, but there is someone just like him who he’s wanted for a long time now and, well…

So he lets it happen, lets Andy suck him off and then fucks him against the desk, even though he feels so guilty about it. Maybe even nauseous. The office is dark and he’s back from the Senate hearing and he’s going to LA soon and he kisses Andy for the first time.

That first kiss is for him, Andy, because he knows that’s what he wants. The next kiss, a few moments later, isn’t for him. It’s not even directed at him, because when Jim closes his eyes and pulls his face closer and grabs the back of his head, he’s not thinking of Andy, not at all.

He pushes him against the wall and they fuck, rushed and hurried. Andy has his inner thighs around Jim’s waist and he’s moaning into his ear and all Jim can think about is how wrong this is. About how he imagines a deeper voice, darker skin, the same athletic build but their positions are reversed so Obama is the one fucking Jim against the wall and he’s digging his fingers into his back and his soothing voice is telling Jim that it’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay, he’s right here, it’s okay.

Andy bites down on his lower lip when he comes and Jim kisses him again – him as Andy – as an apology.

He wonders if this is what the next four years are going to be like, and he wonders how much he’s going to be hurting one of the few people he trusts.

This is not the life he wanted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Do you understand what you’re allowed to say and what you’re not allowed to say at this point, in an open hearing?” Bob asks. His hands are folded over one another and he’s leaned forward on the desk.

“I understand,” Jim replies. His voice sounds foreign, even to him, and the breath he takes shudders in the exhale.

“Then I think we’re good.” Neither of them move, though. They just sit there, looking at each other and waiting to see who blinks first. Bob’s eyes are warm when he asks, quietly, “Jim, are you okay?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s the one who brings it up during their next meeting in the Situation Room. The op-ed isn’t with him but he explains the basic premise, what he’s going to have in it, what it will do to assuage the worries of the American people. He thinks the President will be completely on-board with the decision.

He’s wrong.

“We can’t do that,” Obama tells him, in no uncertain terms. “Going public would be playing right into their hands. People are already calling the system ‘rigged’ and if we release this information, it would look as though we’re somehow helping Hillary.”

“We won’t have to worry about that if I’m the one who goes public with it,” Jim argues. “I’ve already publicly criticized Clinton during the email scandal.”

For a moment, it seems as though Obama might reconsider, that the genuine threat to their democracy is greater than the perceived threat to their democracy. But when Jim gets back to his office, there’s a message from the White House and the matter is forcibly dropped.

“It wouldn’t make sense,” Obama tells him, when Jim calls moments later, “for you to go public before anyone else does – before we have a formal intelligence assessment, even. Let’s wait and see, and if there’s a better time to go public, then we will.”

“Steele’s dossier doesn’t concern you?” Jim asks.

“You know it does,” Obama says. “But, well…”

“It’s a political risk,” Jim finishes for him. “I understand.”

“We will be combatting this Russia narrative, eventually,” Obama says, voice strong and assured. “We just have to make sure our actions don’t influence the American people any more than they’ve already been influenced.”

“I understand, Mr. President,” Jim sighs slowly.

“I knew you would,” Obama says. For a brief moment, he sounds so tired, so tired, but then it’s gone and he’s hung up with a brief goodbye.

Jim deletes the op-ed and wipes his face with his hands. The thing is, he wants to be mad at Obama, wants to be frustrated and have an easy person to blame – but his reasoning makes sense and Jim can’t argue with that. He’s just sitting at his desk, not doing anything, when he gets an unofficial call from Brennan.

 _Of all the people to call_ , he thinks as he picks up. “Hello?”

“Comey, are you publishing the op-ed?” Brennan asks, point-blank.

Jim sighs. “No, I’m not.”

“All right,” Brennan says. “Then consider this a heads-up – I will be giving Reid a private briefing about this. Someone high up in the Democratic ranks should have this information, considering it affects them the most.”

“Okay,” Jim says. He clears his throat. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“Good luck,” Brennan says before hanging up, and Jim is left all alone again.

He can’t wait for this nightmare to end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you okay?” Bob asks again.

Jim opens his mouth. It feels dry and cracked and hollow. He takes a deep breath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Why did you switch your position?” Rice asks him, almost accusatorily, as they’re leaving the Situation Room.

“I refer you to my earlier remarks,” Jim says plainly. He has a raging headache and it feels like his brain is about to explode. November cannot come fast enough. “Commenting now would be too politically charged, and you know as well as anyone else that I try to keep the FBI out of the limelight as much as possible.”

“That doesn’t explain anything,” Rice counters. “What makes now different from a few months ago when you were prepared to go public with the same information?”

“I just said it’s too politically charged,” Jim all but snaps. “People are already divided on this issue by party line – I can’t get involved.” He turns his head and looks at Obama, expecting him to chime in, to defend him, something along the lines of what they’d talked about with the op-ed.

Except Obama doesn’t say anything at all.

Jim thinks his brain will bleed out of his ears. He walks out of the White House without once looking back.

Johnson and Clapper go public and accuse Russia of the hacks, and Jim and Brennan stay silent. And then the Podesta leaks happen.

Jim is so fucking tired of these fucking Clinton emails and this whole fucking election in general. He wishes it would just end, just fucking end. It doesn’t matter who wins – which she will – as long as it’s over and they never have to reflect on it again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“No,” Jim says. He’s staring at the desk, hands curled into fists in his lap. He’s not sure he’s breathing. “No, I’m not okay.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The office is dark, blinds closed and lights off, and he sits at his desk with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. The computer screen is still on and he can see all of it. The spoils of his defeat.

The Clinton team is outraged. The Trump team is celebrating. His agents are disgusted. There’s a piece out there, written by his former peers – “James Comey Is Damaging Our Democracy.” It was all happening again.

The one thing he wanted to avoid, and it happened – the credibility and reputation of the FBI was under fire, and it was all because of him.

Strzok sends an email and Jim gets it at six a. m., but he doesn’t respond to it immediately. He waits, staring at his phone, as he’s been doing so much lately, and waits and waits. And when the White House doesn’t call to demand his immediate resignation by nine, he emails Strzok back.

And when they meet in the conference room and they tell him that nothing’s changed since July, Jim plops into a chair and covers his face with his hand. “Oh, my god,” he mumbles, “it was all for nothing.”

No one says anything else, and he gets up a few moments later to write a second letter to Congress. And his own resignation letter, just in case.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It all spills out of Jim, everything that’s been happening, that’s happened since the Clinton investigation started and all the way until the day he was fired. He can’t keep it in anymore and there’s no one better to tell all of this too than the person he’s telling it to, because in this room, Jim is not someone with the full weight of the Bureau’s burden on his shoulders – it’s just his own.

And Bob listens. He listens intently and he doesn’t say anything until Jim is spent and just sits there, staring into his lap, and then Bob gets up and walks over to him and lifts his head by his chin. He looks down at him with the softest of expressions as he brushes his thumb over the corner of Jim’s mouth.

“Hey,” Bob says, voice steady and secure, “it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” Jim says quietly. His voice is barely a whisper and he doesn’t trust himself to make it louder.

Bob doesn’t respond. Instead he leans down Jim leans up and their lips meet somewhere in the middle, in a slow and gentle kiss. Jim’s eyes close and his eyes sting and it takes him a moment to realize that he might be crying.

He’s being pulled to his feet, one of Bob’s hands on his waist while the other is still holding his face, and his back is soon up against a wall. Bob pulls his mouth away and wipes a tear off of Jim’s cheek. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

Jim nods. He can’t speak. He doesn’t want to. He’s tired of speaking.

“Good,” Bob replies, and then they’re kissing again and Jim finally starts kissing back. His hands cup Bob’s face and card through his hair and, all of a sudden, something’s clicked and he knows he’s just realized something. Except Bob has already pushed his pants down to his ankles and now he’s pressing a finger inside of him and Jim feels his eyes roll into the back of his head.

“Just relax,” Bob says. He tightens his other hand on Jim’s side and it keeps him grounded in the moment, enough that he loosens up and spreads his legs when Bob starts massaging his prostate. It’s torturously slow but ever so gentle and that’s exactly what Jim wants.

He whines, just a little, when Bob’s fingers pull out and rake against his sides, but it turns into a moan when Bob grips him by the waist and starts to fuck him. His dick is hard and firm and his pace is steady as his hips slowly thrust and he kisses down the side of Jim’s neck.

“It’s okay,” he says, leaving the barest of bruises on his jaw. “You can let go. It’s okay. I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

Jim knows he’s crying now and his moans come out in choked sobs as his arms wrap around Bob and pull him close until he can’t feel the space between them. Bob’s hand wraps around Jim’s dick and slowly starts to jerk him off and the back of Jim’s head hits the wall with a heavy thud.

His mind is completely blank for the first time in what feels like years and all he can think about is this moment, right here, with him. Bob kisses him right before he comes and Jim thinks he can see stars when he does.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The election is over. Donald J. Trump has won. Hillary Rodham Clinton has lost. Jim Comey calls Barack Obama.

“I’m sorry, Mr. President,” is the first thing out of Jim’s mouth, before he can even stop himself. He knows this phone call is completely out of normal regulations and he knows it’s all but illegal and yet – he wanted to hear his voice.

“You know,” Obama says, after a moment, “that’s the exact same thing Hillary said to me just now.”

There’s a beat and then they’re both laughing. It’s just light chuckles but they’re hysterical chuckles nonetheless and the reasoning behind them is almost too sad to comprehend. Jim clears his throat. “If you deem it necessary…” he starts.

Obama cuts him off. “Don’t resign,” he says. His tone is firm and decisive and Jim stands up straight just hearing it. “That’s the last thing you should do. You’re a fair and just man, Comey, and if there’s anyone who should see this Russia probe until the end, it should be you.”

Jim doesn’t say anything for a moment. His throat is swollen up and he’s tired, so tired, in every sense of the word. But he has a duty and he can’t forgo that and so he says, “I understand, Mr. President.”

“I knew you would.” There’s a brief pause and then Obama says, “I kind of wish we’d gotten to play basketball together, one of these days.”

“I do too,” Jim says. It’s the truth, and that might be the most telling thing of all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s when he’s running a hand through his hair while Bob buckles his belt that Jim realizes this may have been part of Bob’s plan the entire time – to kill two birds with one stone and let Jim relax for a moment.

And he really needed that. He needed someone he could trust, who could hold him in his arms and talk to him not as the Director of the FBI for once, but as Jim Comey, a man who became Atlas. Who had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Who was so very tired of it all.

That might’ve been a little bit why he’d fallen in love with Obama, back when he was all alone, but in the end, it makes sense that it would be Bob Mueller to set him right. It would always be Bob – there’s no one he trusts more.

No one he loves more.

Jim clears his throat and dusts off his shirt, and Bob leans forward and kisses him again. It’s short and chaste, and Jim chases after it when Bob pulls away.

“How are you feeling now?” Bob asks.

“A little better,” Jim admits.

“Good,” Bob nods. He puts a hand on his shoulder. “We’re going to get through this together, all right? I’m going to be with you every step of the way.” He leans forward until their foreheads are touching and says, quietly, “You’re not alone, Jim.”

Jim doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The moment is short but it feels like eternity and when he finally leaves, Jim feels like a whole new person.

The game has changed. He’s not alone. And it’s only the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't understand the timeline of events, it is as follows -
> 
> Clinton investigation begins  
> Email found (possibly faked by Russians) questioning the impartiality of AG Lynch  
> Comey holds a press conference to announce the end of the investigation  
> Trump investigation begins and Russian interference is acknowledged  
> WikiLeaks releases John Podesta's emails  
> Batch of emails found on Anthony Weiner's laptop and the Clinton investigation is re-opened  
> Three days before the election, the investigation is closed again  
> Trump fires Comey  
> Mueller is appointed as Special Counsel  
> Mueller clears Comey for testimony before Congress


End file.
